The Sydney Royal Easter Show brings Australia’s country smack dab to the heart of its largest city. For two weeks of every year since 1823, cows, trucks, crafts, rides, food, and people have converged on the showgrounds at Sydney’s Olympic Park for a finger-lickin’ good time.

And I was one of them, except I wasn’t there for a good time.

I was there to work.

More specifically, I was there to reprise my role as a carny.

The Interview

Sike! There was no interview. Through some contacts I’d made while working at the Coffs Christmas Carnival, I was told that I had a job for the Royal Easter Show. I turned up with five other backpackers/ex-carnies two days before the show kicked off, and they put us to work immediately.

As the only two girls, my friend Alexa and I were assigned to set up the stock (that’s carny-speak for prizes) in the joint (stall). We were annoyed to find ourselves speaking fluent carny, referring to the prizes as ‘giants’ and ‘larges’, not ‘unicorns’ or ‘parrots.’ Within half an hour we developed an intense hatred for fluffy pink ponies, which refused to hang correctly, and the obnoxious blue seahorses that kept leaping off the wire mesh walls.

I had come to Australia to laze around on beaches. Instead, I was up on a ladder under a red-and-yellow striped tent, sweating bullets and shouting obscenities to stuffed toys as I beat them with my fists and stabbed them with hooks.

Good times.

The Job

Step right up and win this…amazing…orange…cat…thing.

The joint was called ‘Showday Cricket.’ It was comprised of four tables, two on each side. A softball swung from a chain over each table, suspended from a metal bar. The goal was to swing the softball and knock over a coke bottle.

Due to a little bit of of physics and a lot of crafty cheating, it was nearly impossible to do unless you knew the trick (a carny never tells. And this carny can’t remember.). It also had nothing to do with cricket, unless you counted the posters of Shane Warne and Donald Bradman plastered on the walls. And our outfits, which resembled the Australian cricket team’s.

I guess the name ‘Showday Softball’ doesn’t really bring in the punters.

It was boring as hell, calling out to every person who passed and trying to convince them to play this ridiculous game. Our main prize was a giant stuffed bulldog, which really drew the crowds because it was the same blue and white as the Bulldogs Rugby League team.

It remained in place for ten days, until a small boy approached my table with a Ziploc bag full of coins.

“This is twenty dollars,” he said, heaving the money onto the table. “It’s everything I’ve got. I want to win that bulldog.”

I let him win it on the first try.

The Accommodation

This job came with accommodation, which was part of the reason I agreed to do it. What I wasn’t told until the end of our first day of work is that the ‘accommodation’ was a truck.

Truck, Sweet Truck

Yes. A truck.

The same truck that we’d been unloading all day.

The same truck that was still filled with dirt, grass, steel poles, random tools, and stuffed animals.

Alexa and I were crestfallen.

It gets better – this truck was for all six of us. Two girls, four smelly boys, six backpacks, and assorted junk. Sleeping in the truck. For two weeks.

Canadian Kevin cleans up before we all move in.

Once we’d moved in, the smell was atrocious. Wet, unwashed socks, dry food, and damp towels hung from the walls all day. The truck was locked up and parked at the Flemington Caravan Park, where everything inside was left to fester in the heat. We spread the toys on the ground and covered them with sheets, using our backpacks as pillows.

All moved in. So cozy.

To this day, it was the most budget accommodation I’ve ever had.

The Food

On that first afternoon, our boss Lisa drove the six of us to a grocery store. Her brother sat in the front, so we all climbed into the back, pressed against the walls. It was pitch black and there was nothing to hold on to. Alexa and I were convinced that we were being taken somewhere to die, but that wasn’t the case.

At the grocery store, we could only buy what didn’t need to be refrigerated. I decided to live off of canned stew and peanut butter, banana, and honey sandwiches.

It got old real fast.

Real fast.

The Perks

The guy responsible for the roller coaster let me ride it for free. After I got out, he told me that it was held together by a single pin, which, if pulled out, would cause the whole structure to collapse. Whether or not this is true, I didn’t take him up on a second ride.

That was pretty much the only perk.

The Pay

This was sketchy from the beginning. At the Coffs Carnival, I’d made ten dollars an hour, but at the Royal Easter Show I was under new management. They told us we’d earn a percentage of our total takings, and it was quietly understood that we were working tax-free.

At the end of 14 consecutive working days, some of which were 12-hour shifts, I found myself with just over $1000.

“Sorry,” Lisa said. “They had to take some out for tax.”

I don’t know who ‘they’ were, but I have a sneaking feeling it was not the tax office.

Australia taught me what it means to be a working holidaymaker. The country is practically designed for backpackers; sun, beaches, beer, friendly locals and work available everywhere – as long as you’re not too picky. It’s the only country I’ve lived in where I’ve never signed a lease, spending nearly a year as a long-term resident of Aussitel Backpackers in Coffs Harbour.

When I returned in 2008 with Jared, we lived with his parents in Newcastle and I got a couple of semi-normal jobs. But when I first went to Australia in 2004, I followed a strawberry picking job to Coffs, where I fell into the strangest combination of work I have ever had.

Strawberry season ended a few weeks after my friend Alexa and I arrived, but we put the word out among the hostel staff that we were still looking for work. Just before I ran out of money, I scored three new jobs.

Morning Cleaner

Salary: None

Hours: 6:00AM-7:00AM daily

Benefits: Free bed

Negatives: Cleaning up other people’s messes.

It’s all fun and games until someone has to clean it up.

The owner of Aussitel was a stickler for cleanliness, and my job was to have the kitchen, common area, back porch and pool area sparkling by 7:00A.M.

I don’t sparkle by 7:00A.M.

For six weeks, I tried. I got up before everyone else to scrub up the remnants of last night’s dinner plates, an unappealing mixture of congealed sauce, dried noodles, bread crumbs, and feasting cockroaches. I emptied all of the half-full stubbies of Toohey’s New and threw the bottles into a recycling bin. I dumped out overflowing ashtrays and swept up bottlecaps, pausing occasionally to read the quiz questions on the underside. I straightened the lounge chairs by the pool and vacuumed the carpet, all while listening to bad pop music on my iPod. On good days, I remembered to feed the fish (usually too much).

As a finishing touch, I mopped the floor, never managing to do much more than push dirty water all over the kitchen. By the time the owner arrived, I was wiped out and well into a power-nap on the couch.

Bungee Trampoline Operator

Salary: $10 an hour, tax-free

Hours: 9:00A.M. – 5:00P.M. daily

Benefits: Free jumps. Occasional ice cream from the boss.

Negatives: Crying children and stage-mom parents.

Another perk: Shirts with our names on them.

This job was a stroke of good luck (or weird luck) as Nick, the trampoline owner, called up the first hostel in the phone book to ask for staff. Four people, including Alexa and I, took rotating shifts at the Park Beach Plaza. There were three big trampolines set up in the middle of the mall, where Santa Claus had held court only a few days before. A harness dangled in the air above each trampoline, suspended from a collection of bungee cords. The cords were raised and lowered by remote control to allow each jumper to achieve superhuman kangaroo heights.

To attract customers, we had to climb into the harnesses and bound into the air, performing occasional flips to impress the crowd. Soon, children were queuing up and demanding that their parents allow them to have a go.

2) “Go on, get up there.” Pushes sniveling child forward. “Give us a few flips.” Rage builds as child refuses to jump once strapped into harness. “GIVE US A FLIP.” Usually said while casting glances at the rapidly rotating child on the neighboring trampoline. “Oh for f– Come down, then, why don’t you. Quit your crying. You owe me $10.”

3) “Ten dollars? For five minutes? All right, but that’s coming out of your allowance. It’s safe, right? It better be safe.”

I developed one skill from working the bungee trampolines, and it wasn’t transferable.

Eventually, I was able to predict on sight exactly how many bungee cords each child would require. Too few and the kid would never get off the ground. Too many and he would get stuck in the air, so one of us would have to grab his feet and yank him down.

The worst was when you guessed wrong on a fat kid, who would then flail helplessly as the cords were raised and the harness dug into his thighs. Usually this resulted in tears and a refund.

Carny

Salary: $10 an hour, tax-free

Hours: 6:00 P.M. – 10:30 P.M.

Benefits: Free rides on the slingshot.

Negatives: Smelling like cabbage.

Looney Lauren

My boss at the carny was a man named Johnny Castle. I still don’t think that was his real name.

He was enormous, with heavily oiled black hair and a never-ending collection of sweat-stained black t-shirts. But Johnny knew his business, and that was how to scam people. I got the job when I wandered down to the fairground while the Coffs Christmas Carnival was setting up for their six-week engagement. Johnny seemed amused by my presence and agreed to let me run the Looney Hoops stand.

The balls were round, but the hoops were oval, so while it was possible to make a basket, it wasn’t easy.

I spent most nights being harassed by groups of teenage boys.

Ringleader: “It’s rigged, isn’t it?”

Me: “No. It’s not rigged. Two dollars for three shots.”

Ringleader: “Show us how, then.” Grin and cocky glances to his mates. “If it’s not rigged, you should be the best at it. Go on, have a shot.”

Me: “No. Two dollars for three shots.”

An Irish guy named Daryl came to the hostel looking for work, so I suggested he check with Johnny Castle. To my dismay, Johnny hired him, moving me to the canteen and putting Daryl in my spot. Instead of teenage boys harassing me, it was now anyone who wanted a dagwood dog (corn dog), coke, hot chips, or fairy floss.

Which was pretty much everyone at the carnival.

Now I was back to where I’d started that morning, finishing the day with a mop in my hand after scrubbing the canteen’s oil-spattered linoleum floors.

That’s my customer service smile. It’s fake.

By mid-February, I had been sacked as a morning cleaner. They told me it was because they wanted to give opportunities to new people, but I think it’s because I was terrible with a mop. Nick and his bungee trampolines had moved on to a new shopping center, and the Coffs Christmas Carnival packed up as well.

I had earned enough money to let me be just a backpacker again, and Alexa and I hit the well-worn trail up the east coast to Cairns, stopping briefly to do some fruit picking in Bundaberg. Later that year, I ran the risk of becoming a serial carny when I lived in a truck and worked at the Sydney Royal Easter Show. Aussitel backpackers even took me back as a room cleaner, then as a live-in receptionist (no mops required).

I think the working holiday visa is made for this kind of stuff – unusual employment that you’d never do back home. The kind of jobs that add to the adventure and allow you to keep traveling. As long as you remain open to different kinds of work, word-of-mouth can be an amazing networking tool for backpackers in Australia – start talking and just let it happen.

I have had a lot of last days of work over the past six years – a rough calculation indicates approximately 17.

As a result, I cannot generate the appropriate emotional response about leaving the place where I’ve spent 40 hours a week over the last six months.

“So, your last Monday,” someone will say.

“Not long now,” another reminds me.

“You must be getting excited,” they comment.

I can tell that my responses are unsatisfying. I’m about to spend a month in the States, followed by a year in South Korea. This is a Big Deal to people with stability in their lives.

Why, then, am I only able to say, “Yeah, it’ll be good,” or “I can’t wait,” in a manner totally devoid of true emotion? One, because I still have 2 1/2 days of work to get through. I know it’s not long, but it’s still there.

Two, because I’ve done it too many times before. To me, the door to my career is a revolving one. It rotates so regularly that it may as well be motorized – I have to find a gap to jump in and out.

Once upon a time, leaving a job indicated a big change in my life. Since 2003, every time I have ended a job, I have moved to a new country. My adult life has been structured around work – how long I can work in a particular location, what job I can find quickly to support myself abroad. When the visa ends, I leave.

This time is no different – my visa says I have to stop working, so I obey. Because of my nomadic lifestyle, I am used to it. I don’t stress about what’s going to happen next, or worry about what I’ll do if things don’t go to plan. I know that if it all goes wrong, eventually it will all go right again.

This lack of anxiety is perhaps the reason why I am not a ball of nervous energy in the weeks leading up to a departure. In 2003, when I first packed up for Ireland, I spent weeks, months even, revising my mental checklist – What should I bring? Will the ATMs accept my card? How will I cope with not knowing anybody? When I arrived, I was so paranoid about thieves that I carried my heavy Dell laptop in a backpack everywhere I went. I slept with my belongings under my pillow in hostels. I gathered up all of my courage and asked innocuous questions in communal lunch areas (“Did you get your orange juice from the vending machine? Is anyone sitting here?”), just to practice talking to strangers. I analyzed the differences between foreign lands and my home country, trying to make sense of it all.

Now, I don’t start thinking about packing until the day before I leave. I know that if I forget something, I can usually get it there. If I can’t get it there, I can do without. As long as I have my passport and something to read on the plane, the rest will take care of itself.

The excitement is no longer in the anticipation – it is in the details of everyday life in a foreign country. It is checking out what’s on offer at the local grocery store. Poring over a map and discovering the best way of getting to work. Getting stopped for directions and actually being able to give them. Handing money across a counter without having to triple-check each coin for its value. Getting a work email address with “.com.au” at the end of it. There is a constant buzz to everyday life, knowing that you’re taking something foreign and turning it into something familiar.

Korea is going to be a whole different ballgame – I might seem oddly calm now, but the old thrill of the unknown is starting to creep up on me. Pre-departure stuff I understand – it’s not until I arrive that the challenge begins. With challenge comes adventure, and with adventure comes excitement.

Ask me in a few weeks if I’m excited. I guarantee, I will be.

]]>http://lateralmovements.com/arent-you-excited/feed/479I Know, Darlinghttp://lateralmovements.com/i-know-darling/
http://lateralmovements.com/i-know-darling/#respondWed, 02 Jun 2010 22:48:08 +0000http://lateralmovements.com/2010/06/03/i-know-darling/When our receptionist is on the phone, any overflow calls ring through to the back office. I picked up one of these calls.

“Thank you for calling, this is Lauren.”

“Hello, Lauren. I was wondering what kind of work was going for HC drivers.”

Typically, people with a Heavy Combination licence are in demand, so I thought I’d find out some more information.

“I don’t think we have any vacancies at the moment, but they do come up pretty frequently,” I told him. “Could you send through your resume? After that -”

He cut me off.

“I know what you’re going to say next,” he said. “And let me tell you now, I don’t have a resume.”

A twinge of irritation flared up inside me. He was applying for a job. Of course I was going to ask for a resume.

“I don’t have a home, I don’t have a lot of possessions, I don’t have a family – well, I’ve got a couple of sisters up north, but that’s complicated. All’s I’ve got is memories of the past and pictures in my mind. I’m in Sydney at the moment, but I was looking at moving up Newcastle way.”

His life story was of no consequence without a word document of his work history.

“Would you be able to put together a resume? Then we can get you in for an induction.”

“I’ve been driving for twenty years. I started out in South Australia…”

I soon realized that he was giving me a verbal resume. This had gone too far. I zoned out until he was finished.

“…so do you have any work for me?”

“Actually, I don’t usually deal with driving jobs,” I started.

He cut me off again.

“I know that, darlin’,” he drawled. “You’re a nice, sweet thing, but I can tell you don’t know anything about driving jobs. Now, why don’t you put me on to someone who does?”

I transferred the call to someone who does deal with driving jobs. Then I fumed silently in my corner of the office, wishing I had said something to put him in his place. No matter what conventional wisdom says, taking the high road isn’t as satisfying as petty verbal revenge.

]]>http://lateralmovements.com/i-know-darling/feed/087Don’t Tell Me What to Dohttp://lateralmovements.com/dont-tell-me-what-to-do/
http://lateralmovements.com/dont-tell-me-what-to-do/#commentsMon, 26 Apr 2010 01:55:11 +0000http://lateralmovements.com/2010/04/26/dont-tell-me-what-to-do/I had another contender for the Darwin Awards at work last week.

On Wednesday, I tried to book an induction appointment with an electrician. He was due to come in at eight a.m. the following day, so I told him what he needed to bring. Basic information, such as banking details, qualifications, and a birth certificate or passport.

Ensue uproar.

“I’m an Australian citizen,” he protested. “I’ve lived here all my life. Why do I need to bring a birth certificate?”

“I’m not saying you’re not Australian,” I calmly explained. “We just need to see proof.”

His resume went straight into my shred pile and I cancelled the appointment on my calendar.

The next morning, I got a call from the receptionist.

“John Smith is here for your eight o’clock appointment,” she said cautiously. “Do you have an eight o’clock appointment? I don’t see it on the calendar.”

At that stage, I didn’t remember the phone call, but I did have a vague memory of an eight a.m. induction and figured I had just forgotten to schedule it.

“I’ll be right out.”

I walked around the front desk to where John was waiting in the reception area. Most of the time, when people see me and I say hello to them, they stand up and greet me. Not John. He remained seated, avoiding eye contact until I got right up to his knees.

“You can come with me to the flex screening room,” I said.

“Oh, you have an office, do you?” he said, gathering up his backpack and still avoiding eye contact.

I actually thought he had vision problems for the first few minutes of our conversation, because of the way his eyes were wandering blankly about the room and he wasn’t looking at me.

As I asked him to go through the steps of the flexibility screening, he was less than compliant. Each movement was accompanied by eye rolls and sighs, as though I was asking him to juggle bowling pins and balance a ball on his nose.

“With your palm facing the ceiling, lock your elbow and slowly raise your right arm as high as you can without bending it,” I said.

John flipped up his forearm from the elbow, palm facing the floor.

“Let’s try that again,” I said, re-demonstrating what I had asked for. Reluctantly, he completed the move.

“One last thing,” I told him at the end of the five-minute screening. “I need you to do squats.”

Most people do give me a crazy look when I ask this, but kind of a that’s-funny-and-unusual-but-I’m-happy-to-do-it-because-I-want-a-job look. John gave a gargantuan eye roll and let out a long stream of angry breath.

“I squat 300 pounds,” he muttered to himself, then raised his hands as if holding a fake bar and bent down into a lazy squat. He stood up, released his imaginary bar, and glared at me.

I was on the borderline of losing my temper, and had already decided that John was not getting a job out of this.

“OK,” I said. “Put your arms out parallel to the ground do five more.”

John closed his eyes.

“Is there a problem?” I said, angry now.

“It’s all a bit much,” he said. “I shouldn’t have to do this.”

“This is a safety assessment,” I explained. Again. “Everyone has to go through it.”

“No,” he said, grumbling.

“I’ll tell you what,” I said. “You can do five more squats, or you can leave.”

He picked up the imaginary bar and considered.

“You know what,” I said. “I don’t think this job is for you.”

If he had been holding a bar, he would have thrown it at the ground.
He stomped past me and grabbed his backpack.

“Don’t get on with women anyway,” he spat at me. “Don’t like them telling me what to do.”

I opened the door and he made a beeline for the exit.

Yes, we crazy women sure are ballbusters. That’s the problem.

]]>http://lateralmovements.com/dont-tell-me-what-to-do/feed/191Girl Fridayhttp://lateralmovements.com/girl-friday/
http://lateralmovements.com/girl-friday/#commentsFri, 12 Mar 2010 10:01:31 +0000http://lateralmovements.com/2010/03/12/girl-friday/In my current job at a labour hire company, I interview a colourful range of people. Today I was asked to pinch hit for one of the recruiters and conduct a flexibility screening on a woman who was interviewing for a traffic controller position.

The flex screening is designed to make sure everyone is physically capable of being on any given site. It starts with a weigh-in.

“Hi,” I said to the woman, who shall be called Joy for the purposes of this post.

“Well, hi, there!” Joy bubbled. “So nice to meet you.”

“OK, let’s get started by jumping on the scale.”

Joy held up a hand. “I weigh 120 kilos,” she said matter-of-factly. “But I’m very big-boned.” She held up a broad paw to illustrate her point.